Months passed, then years, and the old gal not only hung on but continued her evil ways with gusto. A second heart attack, at sixty-four, failed to slow her, and the entire family became depressed.
Yielding to pressure from Bolton, her doctor ordered her out of the city and into the hills for a two-week retreat—no phones, no internet, no television. Nothing but rest and bland food and lots of sleep. She had in mind a luxurious spa in the Rockies where her friends went to dry out, but Bolton insisted on his fishing cabin. She loathed the place and squawked for three hours as Bolton drove and fumed and fought the urge to whip the car over onto a gravel road and strangle her in a ditch.
For dinner, they ate civilly at the small, rustic table. Frozen fish entrees, plus a glass of wine for him. She said she wasn’t feeling well, the drive fatigued her, and she wanted to go to bed. As she prepared herself, Bolton, wearing thick gloves and sweating and scared out of his mind, removed an eight-foot king snake from a crate hidden in a closet and put it in their bed, on her side, under the blanket. He had mentally rehearsed this a thousand times, but who in hell knows what will happen when a king snake, one well fed and supposedly tame, whatever that meant, gets thrown onto cotton sheets he’s never felt before, then covered with a blanket. Would he freak out and slither out of bed and onto the floor and force Bolton to crawl crablike under the bed trying to catch him? Or would he freeze in place for a few seconds in anticipation of being discovered and the high drama to follow?
The snake cooperated and stayed put. Bolton managed to peel off the gloves before she came out of the bathroom, griping about the temperature. As she was preparing to pull back the covers, Bolton yanked them and screamed at the monstrous black, spotted snake lying on their beautiful white linen sheets. Tillie was so stricken that her vocal cords froze in terror and she could not utter a sound. She recoiled and fainted as she fell back and landed hard against a wall.
For a moment no one moved. Bolton kept one eye on the snake and glanced at his wife, who appeared to be unconscious. The snake raised his head slightly and looked down at Tillie, then turned to check on Bolton. Suddenly, he’d had enough and quickly weaved his way off the bed and onto the floor. When Bolton gave chase, the snake picked up speed and slid faster over the pine flooring. It was imperative to get the damned thing back in its crate, and out of desperation Bolton grabbed its tail, which caused the snake to immediately coil and strike. Bolton yelled as the tiny, razor-like teeth sunk into his left hand. Of course the snake was nonpoisonous—Bolton wasn’t that stupid—but he could still bite and it hurt like hell. Bolton backed away holding his hand and noticing blood. He went to the kitchen, each step careful now that the snake was on the loose, and put some ice in a bowl for his hand. He sat at the table and tried to collect himself. His breathing was labored and he was still sweating. He had to think clearly. Think of it as a crime scene, which in effect it was.
The bleeding stopped but the swelling did not. He wrapped his hand tightly with a dish towel and went to check on his dear wife. She hadn’t moved but had a faint pulse, much to his chagrin. Almost dead presented several scenarios, all of which he had walked through a thousand times. None, though, involved a damned snakebite that would be impossible to hide. He splashed some cold water in her face but she did not respond. The pulse grew fainter but wouldn’t go away. He circled wide to avoid another encounter with the snake, who when last seen was disappearing under the sofa.
Bolton’s future depended on the next few decisions. He would get only one chance to make things work. He checked his wristwatch. 9:44. She had been out for maybe ten minutes. What was the snake doing under the sofa, or had he moved on to another hiding place?
Bolton knew from his careful research that the nearest EMT unit was in the town of Eminence, the county seat, population 600, and it was a volunteer outfit. A prompt response by a well-trained team of medics was unlikely. However, failure to call 911 would only raise suspicions.
He really wanted a shot of bourbon but fought the temptation. There was a decent chance he would be talking to doctors and nurses and he did not want alcohol on his breath.
Her pulse grew weaker.
He opened the doors and with a broom tried to sweep under the sofa. No sign of the snake and it was important to find the damned thing.
At 11:00 p.m., Bolton finally called 911 and reported that his wife was having breathing problems and complaining of chest pains. He thought she might be having a heart attack. The dispatcher sounded as though she had walked in off the street and was taking her first call. Bolton gave his name and the address of his cabin, which, like many in the area, was hard to find in broad daylight. He intentionally neglected to mention a crucial left turn at an intersection, thus guaranteeing the ambulance would take forever.